


High Noon

by lord_garbage



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Boot Worship, Dark, Dom/sub Undertones, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Gifset, Infidelity, M/M, Masturbation, totally platonic shoe licking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2018-12-19 03:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11889114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lord_garbage/pseuds/lord_garbage
Summary: When Jim asks Oswald to hit him with Sofia's riding crop, things change between them. There's only one minor complication: Sofia, Jim's girlfriend, is decidedly not amused.Update:Chapter 5.“Do you get off on this?” Jim asks, cautiously, averting his eyes in embarrassment.Status: Abandoned.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shades of Gray](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8250412) by [tunglo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunglo/pseuds/tunglo). 



> This story is a remix of falsteloj’s [Sunset](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8250412/chapters/26653812).
> 
> I've deleted my Oswald-centric companion fic to this story. However, the gifs are still up on my Tumblr. If anyone cares about the off-screen meeting between Sofia and Oswald that took place, [here it is.](https://lord-garbage.tumblr.com/post/167015015460/fic-parhelion-sofiajimoswald-au-i-will-do)
> 
>  
> 
> **At this point, it is highly likely that I will also delete this story sooner or later. If you want to save it for your personal collection, do it now.**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sofia confronts Jim with what happened between him and Oswald.

“You know, your ex told me she always suspected. About your bisexuality.”

Jim hesitates, then takes another tentative step forward into the relative darkness of the room. Sofia stands in front of one of the large windows, her lit cigarette a stark contrast against the night sky outside. He knows better than to question the dark room or the cigarette – a habit she’d sworn to kick just a week ago.

“Lee?” Jim asks instead.

The thought of Lee and Sofia is always daunting and exhilarating to him. One, able to kill him with a simple telephone call. Or the absurdly sharp heel of her pumps. The other, a distant dream of happiness, almost an illusion now, but still enough to increase his self-destruction impulses daily.

Not that it matters. Not anymore. He's already in far too deep.

An audible chuckle makes him tense up.

“The other one,” she clarifies. “Blond. Spunky. Great legs.”

“You're talking to Barbara?”

“Just gossiping. Comparing notes on James Gordon. Lately, I can’t seem to keep up with you.”

“What’s there to keep up with?” he asks, voice deceptively light.

Clearly, it’s the wrong thing to say. He’s made it a habit, lately, to choose all the wrong things. The wrong kind of people. The wrong kind of pain. The wrong kind of pleasure – if you want to call it that. Not that he’d ever been especially good at dealing with any of those three in the first place.

Sofia waits for a beat to reply, almost as if to chide him.

“You know, Barbara swore up and down you’d never once stepped out on her.”

“I didn’t,” he confirms and leaves it at that.

He has been careful not to talk too much about his past relationships. Too much baggage. Too much to reveal. After Lee. After the virus. And then there’s always Marco and all the other dead bodies littering his path.

A short lull in the conversation. He knows what she’s thinking. What she’s been building up to. It’s now or never. Live or die.

He breathes.

“You see, Jim. I’m just curious why you’d fuck The Bird on the side when you have me.”

Jim swallows against his suddenly too tight throat. Even though he’d anticipated this moment, putting it into words makes it somehow more real. Less like a wild fever dream. Oswald and sex. Sex and Oswald. Oswald and sex and him in the middle.

“I don’t fuck him,” Jim says.

That’s easy to say because it isn’t a lie. And it’s not like he’s ever seriously thought about fucking Oswald. Not before, at least.

“Ah. He fucks you, then?”

“No. That’s not it at all.”

“Then _tell_ me”, Sophia stresses and this is the first time he hears something in her voice that could be vaguely described as an emotion, “ _Why_ does he hit you under my roof with my property?”

 _You have to understand. This is not the person I want to be_ , Jim wants to tell her. _But it is the person that I am. Oswald knows. He understands. He_ sees _me._

Jim keeps his eyes steady on the faint silhouette of her body in the dark. “It’s not about sex.”

At this point, he’s not sure which one of them he’s trying to convince anymore.

Oswald and sex. Sex and Oswald. Oswald and sex and him in the middle.

“Did you know that he’s into guys?”

For a second, Jim feels the irrational urge to laugh. Barbara has always been a terrible gossip when it suited her.

“I guessed it”, Jim says diplomatically, careful not to mention all the lingering looks Oswald had given him over the years. Somehow he’s pretty sure Barbara already covered that topic in colorful detail. “We’re barely even friends.”

“You still seem to put a lot of trust in him. Letting him hit you like that.”

Jim sighs. “It wasn’t about trust. It was about pain. I knew he was able to give me that.”

That’s probably one of the more honest things he’s said so far. And the bit about not fucking Oswald. Good god.

“Just tell me one thing,” Sophia says, sounding carefully detached now. “Do you want to do it again?”

Jim remembers

— Oswald, eyes a deep, liquid blue, a single eyelash on his cheek, arousal evident in the tent of his pants, his voice too soft for what he did – what they’d just done. And for one anxious, awkward moment, it had been there, the urge to press his mouth against those lips and—

“No,” Jim lies smoothly, and if he interprets Sofia’s icy silence afterward correctly, they both know it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald and Jim meet again.

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For accessibility, you can find the written-out version of this gifset [here](https://lord-garbage.tumblr.com/post/164644296160/high-noon-chapter-2-3).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim calls. On edge, Oswald pays Barbara a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to everyone who was expecting this to have a coherent plot.

_Oswald._  

You called! I’m surprised, it only took you about four hours to change your mind.

_I’m not calling about that._

Ah, I see.

_Sofia knows. As you expected. Barbara told her... something. I— I can’t keep doing this._

Now now, Jim. Not so fast. What exactly happened?

_It’s enough that she knows, Oswald. I can’t let this relationship fail._

And yet you chose to call me.

_I— I need..._

What do you need?

_..._

What do you need from me, Jim?

_..._

You know I’d give you anything, right?

...

Anything you want. You just have to ask. You just have to ask me.

_[breathing]_

Whatever you want. You know I’d give it to you. Just like you need it. _Please_ , Jim _._

_I—_

_[ **click** ]_

  

*

 

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For accessibility, you can find the written-out version of this gifset [here](https://lord-garbage.tumblr.com/post/164644296160/high-noon-chapter-2-3).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim is being Jim. And pretty much fails at everything.

“I had an enlightening conversation today,” Sofia almost purrs over the line.

Jim is immediately suspicious. But even if she’d done something truly awful, it’s not like she’d announce it over the phone. Way too pedestrian for a Falcone.

“What about?” he asks while nervously eyeing his watch. Three more hours until his shift ends. And if there’s a little bit of anxiety creeping into his voice, well, that’s just how it is.

“You.”

“Should I be worried?”

There are too many things to worry about these days. The moldy fridge in his apartment. The hole in his left sock. Climate change. The new mayor’s cannibalistic past, as reported by the Gotham Gazette just yesterday, if he’s feeling particularly conspiratorial.

“I don’t know. Ask The Bird.”

 _Shit_.

Jim’s breath catches for a second. He’s sure she’s noticed.

“You spoke to Oswald?”

“He just left the mansion.”

Jim’s mind races. Leaving the mansion. That doesn’t sound too bad, actually. Legs intact, at least. Unless a coffin was involved. But surely Sofia isn’t like that. She’d never— Unless she—

“I thought we had agreed to—”

“We did. And then he gave you a phone. What was that about, anyway?”

Oh god, if she _knew_ what he’d done. Jim feels his face heating at the thought of begging Oswald, of almost, _almost_ giving in. He’s glad that no one’s looking. They’d only draw the wrong conclusions.

Jim licks his lips. “I... I already told you that there’s nothing going on between us.”

That is, of course, bullshit. He won’t repeat that it wasn’t sexual, because, if that wasn’t a lie before, it is now. A _brazen_ lie. And Jim really doesn’t know what to do with that. There’s really not enough alcohol in the world for _that_ sort of crisis.

“And that you’re barely even friends,” Sofia supplies helpfully, quoting his own words back at him.

“Yes,” he confirms weakly. That’s always been a good cover. “I guess Oswald just liked the sound of it. Never bothered to correct him. And then it just stuck.”

While it’s true, Jim thinks, he doesn’t exactly like how it makes him sound like a bit of a dick.

“Well, he apologized for the misunderstanding. And he promised not to contact you anymore. But he wants his phone back. ASAP.”

“He did what?” Jim asks, perplexed at that sudden turn in their conversation. “I mean, yeah, I can do that. Sure.”

Their goodbye is a little awkward. Both too hasty and self-satisfied on Sofia’s side. She doesn’t even reply to his _I love you_ , only laughs and tells him not to work too hard in a much too stilted manner.

Jim wonders what she and Oswald talked about. If giving back the phone is merely an excuse for a secret meeting, setting up new means of communication, maybe even something more frivolous?

He’s sure Oswald will think of something.

 

*

 

Oswald’s lips are drawn into a tight line when they meet. He looks thoughtful, sitting all stern, shoulders back, on his ugly sofa. Like a sad clown in an extravagant suit at least one size too big for him.

“I will not be your shameful secret, James Gordon,” he tells Jim in a quiet, resolute voice, and, surprisingly, it holds no real anger.

“I heard you two talk,” Oswald explains, staring straight ahead, both hands clasped tightly in his lap. “On the phone. About me.”

“She made you listen.”

Almost imperceptibly, Oswald shifts, his face a calm, calculated mask.

Not the bluster or jealous wrath Jim expected. He’s not sure if this development unsettles him.

“If it matters, I’m very sorry for what I said earlier,” he confesses.

What Jim doesn’t say: _Telling the truth has never been my strong suit._ Or: _I am so used to hiding behind masks, sometimes I even forget where my own face begins and where it ends._

Oswald smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. A cold and cruel grimace, that’s all it is. “I assure you, it does not.”

“If there’s anything—”

“No, there’s not”, Oswald says curtly. “Nothing to get you your little ‘fix’ or whatever you came here for. I only want back what’s mine. No more explanations needed. I believe I’m in possession of all the relevant facts.”

Jim doesn’t even pretend to retrieve the phone from his suit pocket.

Instead, he lifts a defiant eyebrow. “And what does that mean?”

Oswald glares at him, the first real spark he’s shown since Jim entered the house. It feels a lot more familiar, reassuring even. To know that there still beats a heart somewhere underneath that chilly facade.

“Here to twist the knife, are you? Or is that just the typical GCPD intellect bleeding through?”

Jim only shrugs. That was a weak attempt at goading him and they both know it.

“What changed?” he asks.

Oswald’s lips suddenly twist bitterly and there’s just the slightest tremble in his voice. “What changed, Jim? Well, you did. Or maybe I’m finally seeing you for what you really are. Maybe I should thank that girlfriend of yours. At least she’s being honest.”

Jim wants to reply, to defend himself, but Oswald holds up a hand. Now, that he’s finally unlaced his fingers, Jim takes a look at them as if for the first time. Pale, slender, like the rest of the man. Jim tries to remind himself how they looked, holding Sofia’s crop, leaving marks on his body but comes up empty.

The funny thing is, Jim had already anticipated having a similar conversation. Just not with Oswald.

He feels a faint sting of something in his chest. Maybe pain. Or betrayal. Or guilt? He isn't entirely sure.

“Whatever she told you,” Jim says, alarmed. “Please let me explain.”

“I will say this for once and for all.” Oswald leans forward, canting his head, and looks Jim right in the eye. Steady, unwavering, a blunt edge to his voice. “I pursued you because I assumed that’s what you secretly wanted. Today I saw proof of the opposite. Whatever you think you need from me, I will not further degrade myself for you, who will not even privately call me his friend. I’m not your whipping boy, Jim. No pun intended. If you want to sabotage that picture-perfect life of yours, be my guest, but I suggest you’d better start wooing another one of your depraved associates.”

“That’s not—,” Jim stutters.

“It’s not? Then tell me what it is, Jim Gordon. What have I ever been to you but a convenient tool of destruction? I’ll wait.”

Oswald’s accusing eyes bore holes into his soul, but there’s nothing Jim can reply. Or at least nothing that wouldn’t sound completely hypocritical to his own ears.

After a few moments, Oswald breathes a heavy sigh. It almost sounds disappointed.

“I’m sorry,” Jim says, in the end, because he thinks that makes him less vulnerable than his guilty silence. 

Something ugly twists inside him. Maybe Oswald is right. Maybe this is just who he is.

Jim leaves the house, the street, his head. Meanwhile, the little black phone is still safely tucked inside his pocket.

 

*

 

“You lied to me,” he tells Sofia three hours and two beers later. It’s not an accusation, merely a statement of fact.

She smiles in reply, revealing a row of pearly white teeth. There’s nothing soft about it. The smile of a victor, a predator.

“You had to come clean to one of us. I figured that’d better be me.”

“I love you,” he says, because, in that moment, it feels entirely logical.

Logical to love someone like her. Fiercely. Someone who skirts his own darkness just enough to not be corrupted or consumed by it. To pretend, for a while, that there is more to him than this human shape full of ragged edges and bitter skin. Tough to swallow, even for someone like Oswald Cobblepot.

That night, her hands feel hot against his body. He starts deepening the kisses when he feels her nails scratch along his back. It’s not enough to draw blood, but just for a minute, it lights the starless night inside him like a burning supernova. All-consuming, mind-numbing perfection. It is _enough_.

 

*

 

The next day, they break up a gang altercation on the streets of one of the seedier parts of town. For a second, Jim’s distracted and this huge thug gets a good punch in, hitting him square in the jaw.

 _Rookie mistake_ , Jim thinks. Or maybe it wasn’t. Who can tell?

“You okay there, Jimbo?” asks Harvey when they’re in the car, on the way back to the station. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white. Another time, this sight might’ve made Jim suspicious, today it doesn’t. “That looked like it fuckin’ hurt.”

Jim feels numb, hollow. His jaw burns. His mind, on the other hand, is blissfully silent – full of calming white noise. Almost peaceful. A whole other kind of siren song.

He could get used to this.

“Never better,” Jim says, suppressing a delirious smile, and means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thank you to **DarkwingedAngel999** for his kind encouragement behind the scenes.  <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim wants to apologize. Oswald reasserts control. 
> 
> _“Do you get off on this?” Jim asks, cautiously, averting his eyes in embarrassment._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: **Dubious consent**. There’s probably a more appropriate warning, but right now, I can't think of it. I've also added the **Power Dynamics** tag. If anyone has better tag suggestions, please tell me.
> 
> Sofia's arrival in 4x03 inspired me. As far as I’m concerned, however, HN!Sofia and Show!Sofia are two separate characters.

Jim starts to collect bruises over the next sixteen days. After the first week, he stops being subtle about it.

People begin to notice.

“You’re going to die doing this,” Sofia tells him calmly while pulling him into a firm, steady embrace, stroking his back. “I can help you, but you have to let me.”

He chuckles at that, weakly—anxiety pooling low in his stomach—unsure if it is what he actually wants. Or if he’s not just waiting to be pulled under once again, to fall and finally hit the ground. And then to stay there.

If he’s being honest with himself, Jim expected her to bring it up sooner. The first few times they slept together after the last ‘incident,’ for example. He remembers the exact moment, the soft touch of her lips, directly below some fresh bruises. Her wandering hands, the way his body hurt—just so slightly, oh, deliciously—and how he’d wondered if she’d still love him knowing about this. If only she understood, broke him into several sharp, tiny pieces, and put him back together again.

But then there’s the memory of Oswald’s accusing glare—not unlike Lee’s—the awful silence in the room that made it hard for Jim to hear himself think. The shame he felt, still feels, for being found out as everything he is and all he ever will be. The same shame that now follows him into even the quietest corners of his own mind.

He’s sure that Harvey, too, has his suspicions. All the scrutinizing looks and the questions. Serious ones. About the state of Jim’s relationship. If he’s in trouble. If he needs to vent. Or a place to crash. The way things are going, he’s almost surprised Harvey hasn’t given him mandatory desk duty yet. To keep him out of trouble.

At the end, Jim tells Sofia what he’s told Harvey in different variations all week.

“I’m okay,” he lies. “Just a little preoccupied lately.”

They both know with what. It’s not exactly a secret. He’s told her about his intention to salvage the relationship with Oswald. It’s just not a good idea to mess with the Penguin of all people, then let resentments fester. Not in a place like Gotham with too many affordable contract killers on the loose.

Sofia understands that, but Jim knows: She’s wary, watchful.

“I’m not ready to lose you. Not so shortly after Mario,” she says, voice strangely determined, intent brown eyes fixed on his.

He swallows, guilty. “You won’t.”

 

*

 

This is the second time this week he’s tried to see Oswald. And it’s only Tuesday.

When Jim knocks at the door, Zsasz opens a few moments later. Last time, it had been Oswald’s dour-faced Russian maid. Only once, Oswald himself had appeared, given him the most scathing look, then wordlessly slammed the door in Jim’s face. Perhaps Jim should be thankful that, at this point, he hasn’t already invested in a pack of slobbering pit bulls.

Then again, on his bad days, Zsasz comes pretty close.

“Take a hint. The boss doesn’t want to see you,” Zsasz drawls in a bored voice. It’s probably not terribly exciting to go from working as Don Falcone’s right-hand man to playing a glorified murder secretary slash doorman. “Penguin’s busy.”

“Tell him it’s important,” Jim grinds out in frustration, his hands clenched into tight fists at his side. “About the city.”

He doesn’t care how this looks. If anything, he’s just another dirty cop, waiting to be bribed. At any rate, it’s less embarrassing than the real reason why Jim’s here: To grovel for forgiveness like a dog. As if the last week full of rejected phone calls wasn’t already pathetic enough.

“GCPD business, eh?” Zsasz tries to stare him down. His dark eyes are empty and soulless, just like the man himself. “He told me you’d say that. If you want one-on-one time with him so badly, get a warrant.”

Obviously, Jim won’t do that. No need to involve the GCPD—or Harvey, for that matter. He’d only get an aneurysm.

When Jim walks back to his car, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and frustration at the thought of Zsasz’s sneering face, he imagines Oswald pacing somewhere in that big house of his. Flinching at the sound of Jim’s voice outside. He hopes that Oswald’s heard everything that’s happened. That he feels just as wretched and powerless as Jim does in this very moment. It would serve him right.

 

*

 

“You could always let me send a gift basket. Like a normal person,” Sofia proposes drily after he’s told her about his visit, carefully omitting some of the more irrelevant details. She leans back in her leather chair. “That way, he can’t accuse you of harassment.”

Sofia’s been against this from the start, called it ‘Jim Gordon’s grand apology tour.’ Maybe she’s right. Oswald is a vindictive person by nature and opening himself up to that kind of resentment is practically asking to be exploited for some kind of nefarious purpose.

Maybe that’s exactly what he wants. Why he’s doing it. Pushing and prodding until Oswald snaps, lashes out at him on instinct. Then, at least, Jim doesn’t need to resort to strangers anymore.

 _Just a tool of destruction_ , Jim thinks darkly to himself. _Is that really so bad?_

“He’s a small man,” Sofia says, musingly, still following her previous train of thought—the gift basket.

She shifts her legs and gives him an excellent view of her figure in that tailored pencil skirt of hers. It’s one of the benefits of their relationships that he no longer has to pretend not to stare like other people. That he can be shameless with her. To an extent.

“Practically tiny,” she goes on, archly, but her smile has turned wicked now. She’s probably seen the heat in his eyes. “He could definitely use more meat on his bones.”

Jim remains carefully silent at that, even though he agrees with the general statement. There’s just no way he’ll voice an opinion on Oswald’s body. Ever. The official story is that he doesn’t think about it—in or out of the extravagant suits—and Jim plans to stick to that.

“Penguin wouldn’t appreciate the gesture,” he says instead, scowling.

It’s always _Penguin_ now, to create distance. He’s _Oswald_ just in his head. When it’s Jim, his erection, and his heady, strangled grunts in the shower. Sometimes _Penguin_ there, too, but only in those instances when Jim’s _Detective Gordon_ or, in special cases, _you bastard_.

Sofia shrugs, snorting. “Oh, I know he’ll hate it. That’s part of the appeal.”

“I need you to be serious about this,” he reminds her.

Jim knows she doesn’t take Oswald seriousy—calling him _The Bird_ at practically every opportunity she gets—but people have underestimated the man before. And dearly paid for it. Still, he’s not terribly surprised when she just laughs at his words. It’s light and playful and a little irritating.

“And I need you to stop coddling him just because he’s in love with you,” she replies, winking at him. “You don’t have to feel sorry for him. He’s a grown man.”

For whatever reason, Sofia likes to reference Oswald’s so-called feelings for him with impish glee, almost like it’s an obscure funhouse attraction. Maybe she knows that Jim can’t deal with it, that the thought overwhelms him. That the only combination which is deadlier to him than ‘Oswald Cobblepot and sex’ is ‘Oswald Cobblepot and love.’

Of course, Jim’s heard rumors about the reasons behind Oswald’s falling out with Ed, but he’s chosen not to believe them. It makes things so much easier.

Sometimes, in bed, Sofia recounts the moment when Jim’d told her on the phone that he and Oswald weren’t friend. And the way Oswald’s easy, confident smile had—allegedly—transformed into a stoic mask. How he hadn’t been able to meet Sofia’s eyes after Jim’s _I love you_ , had stared, unbelievingly, at the cane in his shaking hands, shrinking about three inches in mere seconds.

Jim’s sure she’s exaggerating some of it, but he usually doesn’t feel like having sex afterwards.

He sighs, resigned. “Please, Sof, let me handle this.”

“That’s just the thing with you, Jim,” Sofia says, eyes apologetic, her words tinged with something that almost sounds like regret. “I’m not sure you can.”

 

*

 

Jim waits a few days before he returns to the mansion. This time, Zsasz waves him through.

Oswald sits on the sofa, almost like Jim left him there the last time. He looks better, though, well-rested, more like his usual self. But Jim recognizes the hidden tension in his shoulders, the aggressive set of his jaw, his pinched mouth. It’s obvious, he means business.

“I hope we can keep this brief,” Oswald says, smugly, as soon as their eyes meet. “And before I forget. Please give Sofia my thanks for the present and her very kind card. The goose liver pâté was most delicious.”

“This isn’t about her.”

 _Or the fucking food_ , Jim thinks, groaning inwardly.

Sofia and her funny ideas. He should have expected this. Better not reveal the embarrassing fact that he didn’t know, had no part in it, wasn’t even asked. At least not directly.

“Please forgive me for injecting something pleasant into the conversation,” Oswald tells him in mock offense, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I know how much you hate it when I do that.”

This is going so well already, but he has to try. No going back now. Jim exhales slowly, trying to calm down and put his thoughts in order. He counts to ten.

“I want to apologize,” Jim says, desperately hoping he sounds genuine. “For what I did. The way I behaved. It was selfish of me. Please tell me if I can fix this.”

For a long, long minute, they stare at each other in silence. Oswald’s face is still, his eyes assessing—he’s obviously considering Jim’s words—while Jim’s heart might as well beat out of his chest. At last, the other man beckons him to come closer. Like a child, Jim thinks, but he cannot suppress the shiver of anticipation running down his body.

“If you really want to make amends,” Oswald says smoothly, raising an eyebrow in challenge. “Please be good for me and clean my shoes. With your tongue.”

“What?” Jim asks, as usual eloquence personified.

Oswald shrugs. “Feel free to leave if you don’t like it. I won’t hold it against you.”

To be fair, Jim doesn’t like it. But, at this point, surrendering is not an option. And he’s already done far worse things.

He drops gracelessly to his knees in front of Oswald, both hands beside him on the floor.

“Do you get off on this?” Jim asks, cautiously, averting his eyes in embarrassment.

He cannot keep the uncomfortable edge out of his voice. Doesn’t know yet if he’d like it or not. Being the center of Oswald’s desire is somewhat new and abstract to him. Usually, it’s been the other way round and he’s never seriously contemplated Oswald’s side of things. Obviously, this attraction to him has been smoldering since the early days, but—after Arkham, after Fish—it almost strikes Jim as masochistic. Not that he’d ever ask about it.

Oswald tips Jim’s head back, a finger beneath his chin. He languidly smoothes his thumb along Jim’s jaw, studying Jim’s face with intent. His mouth is drawn into a smile now—wide and vicious and sharp. Too sharp for Jim’s liking.

“If you must know, I don’t,” Oswald says, the barest hint of a tease in his voice. “Now be quiet. You made the mess. Time to clean it up.”

A shudder runs up Jim’s spine.

Oswald’s dress shoes look expensive, pristine. Black leather. Probably just shined this morning. As he bends over, the chemical tang of polish hits Jim’s nose. It isn’t ideal and not at all sexy, but he’ll make do.

“You know, I always thought that friends don’t make their friends beg,” he hears Oswald say, quietly, when he bows his head and gives the tip of Oswald’s left shoe a first timid lick. “Then I met you. And I reconsidered.”

Jim keeps dragging the flat of his tongue against the same spot on the polished leather, feels Oswald’s toes wriggle ever so slightly beneath. He knows that what he’s doing isn’t terribly creative, but what’s the point of making a show out of something that neither of them particularly enjoys?

Instead, Jim lets his eyes flutter shut, thinks about sliding his fingers to Oswald’s ankle, massaging his slender calves, rubbing his inner thighs, and kissing the faded scars Jim’s dreamt about in several of his shower fantasies. He won’t do it, obviously—not now, anyway—but indulging himself a little can’t hurt.

It’s true, Jim has kind of a thing for legs—clad in heels or stockings or both, usually women’s legs—but for Oswald, he’s willing to make a generous exception. The mere thought of nuzzling the back of Oswald’s knee... An involuntary grown escapes him, but it comes out muffled against the shoe, which, at this point, glistens obscenely with Jim’s spit.

“You can stop now,” Oswald says suddenly, sounding perhaps a little strained.

Jim blinks up through the strands of hair that have fallen into his face. He finds Oswald looking back down at him, hotly.

“Tell me, why are you doing this to yourself, Jim?” Oswald asks, lips trembling, a soft tremor in his voice. “What could you possibly gain from this that I haven’t already freely given you?”

“I don’t know,” Jim replies, huskily.

He shifts his weight to one side as the ache in his knees intensifies.

“Do you think of me when you’re alone? Or when you’re with her?”

“Sometimes,” Jim breathes. He doesn’t need to differentiate.

Oswald levels him with a long look, tilting his head to the side. Clearly curious.

What do you think about? Does the thought of me arouse you?”

“Different things. And yes.”

Sometimes it’s pain. Sometimes it’s pleasure. Often both, simultaneously.

A frown appears on Oswald’s face. “Be more specific. About your thoughts.”

Jim wets his lips and feels his cock stiffen at Oswald’s interest.

“You hurt me.”

Oswald hums, eyeing him speculatively.

“Touch yourself for me, Jim,” Oswald says, adding a little uncertain, “You do that, don’t you?”

Jim’s pulse quickens and he nods. Fumbles with his belt after a short, embarrassed second of hesitation and sneaks his hands gingerly into his trousers.

“Let me see,” Oswald demands, hurriedly, already craning his neck and leaning forward to get a better view.

Locking his eyes with Oswald, Jim shimmies his trousers down, takes his cock out and strokes himself jerkily. It’s definitely not his best performance, but considering the way Oswald’s eyes already devour him, he cannot be that bad.

The position is a little awkward and Jim ends up leaning himself on his free hand. He keeps moving, thrusting his hips, and waits for Oswald to do something. To guide him. To release him. To touch him. But Oswald remains just... Sitting there, eyes on him. Prim. Self-composed. So fucking out of Jim’s reach.

This demeanor could definitely be sexy—Barbara’s played the Ice Queen act for Jim too many times to count—but right now all it makes him feel is flustered and insecure. Not wanted, desired. No, this isn’t pleasure—not the way Jim knows and enjoys it, loud, mutual, and enthusiastic on all levels—this, here, is merely a show, a task, a chore, a punishment.

An apology. Ah, he almost forgot.

Jim closes his eyes, faintly disappointed with both Oswald and himself, and massages his cock in firm, hard strokes. His mind clouds with pictures of Oswald sliding a foot across his naked belly, pressing his heel hard on Jim’s balls, nudging his bare, sensitive cock. Oswald spitting in Jim’s palm. Giving him something slick, something of his, to work with. And Jim, in turn, spilling all over Oswald’s fine leather shoes.

_Would he make me clean it up? With my tongue?_

The thought sends a shiver through Jim’s limbs and he has to bite down to keep from moaning.

Opening his eyes again, he sees that Oswald’s expression hasn’t changed much. It remains one of guarded curiosity—mouth slightly agape, a pretty pink color rising in his cheeks. But there’s also a pronounced stiffness to his entire body. An unnatural restraint in the way he keeps both hands pressed rigidly to his sides. Almost as if he’s too afraid to touch, to break the boundaries he’s set up, to make more of this than a one-sided, perverse spectacle.

Jim wants to tell him that he can, could, _should_ —that _they_ could, that _this_ could be so much more—and that’s exactly the moment when Zsasz announces, somewhere behind him: “Barbara Kean’s here to see you, boss.”

It’s probably one of the most anticlimactic things that have ever happened to Jim.

Hastily, he jerks his hand away from his cock and tucks himself back into his trousers, but there’s just no way Zsasz can mistake his position on the floor or the sound of his fly and belt being fastened. Not to mention his panting.

He’s totally, irrevocably fucked, Jim thinks.

“Just another minute,” Oswald tells Zsasz with a fake smile, then he looks back at Jim with a new expression that is infuriatingly bland in its formality. “I’m afraid we have to end this here, Jim. You see, there’s business to attend to.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Jim groans, exasperated. His legs tingle when he moves, tries to shift into a crouch and he almost manages to fall on his ass. “You’re really throwing me out now?”

He knows he must be utterly ridiculous with his flushed-red face and a voice that sounds wrecked, high and tight, even to his own ears. Clumsy. Aroused. And desperate.

In the end, Oswald even has to help coax him upright which is about as humiliating as it sounds.

“I will consider your apology, Jim,” Oswald informs him coolly as he lets go of Jim’s arm, eyes narrowed in pointed distaste. “Please leave now while I’m still in a charitable mood.”

 

*

 

Back at his apartment, shame roiling in his belly, Jim flings the black mobile he’d foolishly kept—as what, a memento? _don’t be ridiculous_ —against the wall of his bedroom. He figures he doesn’t need it anymore. He doesn’t need anything or anybody.

All he needs is room to scream his lungs out, to melt the ice in his guts.

Jim calls Sofia, telling her that he won’t make it. They’d planned to eat out.

Half an hour later, she’s at his door, smiling, and wears the dress he loves so much: The red, low-cut one, with matching stilettos. They kiss a lot, that evening—warm and deep and comfortable and perfect—curling up on his couch together. She holds him tight, tells him, _You’re so lovely like this_ , and he nuzzles her neck, breaking a little inside all while smelling her perfume until the rhythm of her quiet breathing makes him drift away.

The next morning, he takes in her sleeping form beside him. She’s beautiful, fatally so, her still face framed by a halo long, dark hair. His eyes settle on the mole on her throat and he shifts closer, tracing it lightly with the tip of his finger.

 _How foolish_ , Jim thinks as Sofia stirs, giving a soft noise of complaint, _to risk this_.

It’s not like he could ever anything like it with Oswald. They are both not wired that way—both monsters in their own right.

Jim and Sofia have a quiet breakfast, coffee and toast. That’s followed by dinner. And lunch.

The talk about work, share the newspaper, kill a bottle of wine and, afterwards, cuddle in front of the chimney.

She sighs into his mouth, he unzips her skirt, she smokes on the bed in her underwear, sticking her tongue out at him when he reminds her of the time she wanted to quit, he leans against the cold bathroom wall, head in his hands, thinking, _So we’re really doing this_.

They don’t talk about Oswald. Jim doesn’t ask. About her gift. Or the card.

They don’t talk about the fact that her interference makes Jim mad as hell. That he wants to know every single word the two so much as breathe to each other.

That he still dreams of finger-shaped bruises on his body, of a stranger in a suit telling him filthy-dirty things in the dark where their eyes never have to meet. That he’d probably leave her if he could just be alone with himself right now. Because he doesn’t want to burn her like Lee. Because he has the lighted match already in his hand, feels like he was born with it.

Three days later, Sofia receives an invitation to a private party held at Oswald’s mansion. Jim sees the envelope—black, with gold lettering.

(She’s probably allowed a plus one.)

They don’t talk about that either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to **thekeyholder** for giving me her thoughts on this beforehand.  <3
> 
> Music: [Lambchop – This Corrosion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1G6wy2wzzbs) (Sisters of Mercy cover)
> 
>  
> 
> A few additional notes:
> 
>   1. Sofia's gift basket contained several fine foods—all made from birds. Consider it an inside joke.
>   2. The next part will probably be a short interlude in which Jim and Oswald both meet someone for a quick chat. After that, the party, which, if I don’t change my mind about it, will mirror some S4 events with a few twists here and there.
>   3. Originally, I wanted Oswald to celebrate his club opening. The problem is, Barbara is still in the picture and, according to the gifs in the third chapter, she has yet to let go of _The Sirens_. That, by the way, is the business she and Oswald are meeting about. More on that later.
>   4. Yes, Oswald fell in love with Ed in this fic universe. It's not hugely important, but it's there.
> 


**Author's Note:**

> I've deleted my Oswald-centric companion fic to this story. However, the gifs are still up on my Tumblr. If anyone cares about the off-screen meeting between Sofia and Oswald that took place, [here it is.](https://lord-garbage.tumblr.com/post/167015015460/fic-parhelion-sofiajimoswald-au-i-will-do)
> 
>  
> 
> **At this point, it is highly likely that I will also delete this story sooner or later. If you want to save it for your personal collection, do it now.**


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